Warped

My family is warped. And I admit freely that I am a special sort of super warpiness. Last summer my mom decided to get a couple of white-haired wigs. She thought her hair was too thin to be beautiful any more. When they began to feel hot and itchy, she was easily won over by our reassurances that she was still beautiful.
Her will stated that she would be cremated, and, since I'm a ceramist, I decided to make the urn myself. I'll be doing one for my father's ashes as well. So the least expensive container for the ashes is a heavy duty, black plastic box. As I was gathering her lovely clothes to take to charity, I saw that she had kept the wigs. Well, it occurred to me to place one of them on her box so we could smile at her instead of feeling sad each time we saw the cold, impersonal box.
My daughter, who may someday get her PHD in super warpidity, suggested that I put googly eyes on the box. I thought Mom would find that hilarious, but was concerned what visitors might think. Not really, actually, if I had the googly eyes, I would have done it.
My nephew, bless his heart, is a big warpy soul. One of my fun Halloween things is a big plastic knife that plays the screechy shower scene music from the movie Psycho. You can this where this is going, right? As I was out front preparing for trick-or-treators, he ran out of the house with the wig on holding the screeching knife high. I screamed and then I had a good belly laugh! I'm still chuckling about that. I think Mom would have appreciated that.